An afternoon in the garden

 

An afternoon in the garden

We visited Gareth and Nina and their family on Saturday. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen all of them together. Susannah drove us there, which was very nice of her.

The ‘children’ are all currently living at home, with plans to move out to live in London, where the three of them work, with friends. Everything in London is so expensive, and they know they will have to part with a lot of their hard-earned salaries each month.

It was so nice for Frankie (13) to see his cousins, (27, 25 and 23) He’s had a rough couple of years with many changes, and it was good for him to be greeted and treated as an individual in his own right and not be judged or criticised. He had a wonderful time in their company and they each had something different to offer him.

It was a warm, sunny afternoon and we sat under an enormous adjustable parasol, which has integral lights and sound. We didn’t need the lights, of course, but it was pleasant to listen to different people’s play lists.

Gareth loves preparing and cooking food, so we dined very well, with Nina’s delicious salads accompanying homemade burgers and sausages. The pavlova proved a step too far for most of us, sadly. It looked delicious!

I discovered that Elliot cannot burp. It was not a subject I introduced freely, but he asked me if I still wrote blogs, so I told him about the recent one. He suffers from abelchia and often has to lie flat on his back to relieve the discomfort. This leads to some interesting conversations when he’s out, as strangers offer sympathy - ‘Had a bit too much, mate?’ It cuts short some of his evenings as he is obliged to return home.

It was soon time for us to take our leave. Eve and Louis were planning to go out for the evening and were trying to persuade Elliot to join them. They asked us what we would be doing for the rest of the day. One event a day is quite sufficient for us . . .

Today, Susannah and Frankie, Arthur and the three cats have returned to London. We shall see them again soon. It was very pleasant to have them here for a week.

It feels quiet here now. The dogs and cats are flaked out. We shall go to bed early. The heat is building up again, so early morning walks will be the order of the day once more.

Facebook memories

 

Facebook memories

The picture that popped up today was of Frankie when he was little. Frankie is my seventh grandchild, and he will be thirteen on December 1^st. My, how time flies!

He and his mother lived with us for five and a half years. It was just intended to be for a couple of months, while his mother sorted herself out, but she needed that time to rebuild her confidence. We were happy to have them, and it was a joy to watch the little boy grow up and develop.

Like many small boys, he was obsessed with cars. In this photograph he was sitting in his high chair, about to have his tea.

I couldn’t resist captioning the photograph with ‘Jam for tea??’

I advise all parents and grandparents to cherish such moments because the future is uncertain. It’s good to have sweet memories. Photographs are excellent for capturing them.

First day

  First day

Ariella is four years old, the daughter of my second granddaughter. She is more than ready for school! Here she waits under a tree in her all-new uniform, keen to start the day. I love the boots!

Big cousin Fergus, nearly 11, is looking after her. He delivered her to her classroom this morning. He is starting Year 6, his final year in primary school, and Ariella is starting in Reception class.

It was a lovely sunny morning in Dorset, but Ariella carries her own sunshine, anyway!

Isla joined Fergus and Ariella for a photograph. Isla is twelve and at secondary school. She is my oldest great-grandchild and almost the same age as my seventh grandchild, Frankie. I cannot believe she is wearing a tie. I didn't think schools were still so unenlightened.

Ariella is very fortunate to have her cousins living so close. I'm sure her grandmother, my eldest daughter, appreciates how lucky she is to have all her family near . . . and handy for baby-sitting duties!

I don't suppose Ariella will look quite so neat and tidy at the end of her day. See here for a more realistic expectation.

Summer visitors

 

Summer visitors

Arthur goes to bed with at least one toy.

Arthur has come to stay for a couple of weeks while his owner visits the South of France for a few days. It is a working holiday for her. She was recently made redundant but managed to get another short-term contract, so is working remotely. She has gone with a pregnant friend whose parents have a holiday home there.

Arthur was always going to stay with us, but the cats had to come, too. The cat-sitting arrangements fell through while Susannah waited for confirmation of her new job. Solomon, Lenny, and Zula are safely ensconced in what we laughingly call the South Wing, East Wing, West Wing?? another part of the house anyway, where she and Frankie lived for almost six years. It’s just the three old bedrooms of our children, nothing spectacular.

Herschel and Jellicoe are fascinated and sit near the dividing door when I go in to ‘see to the cats.’ Arthur dances around outside, not desperate to visit his housemates. They are not nearly as tolerant as our felines, who give him a good ignoring while attempting to steal his food.

                                        Stopping for a portrait

Arthur is a very obedient little dog – a working Cocker spaniel, with boundless energy and the sweetest nature. Out of the house for a walk, he dashes hither and yon, but never goes far from whoever is walking him, currently Barry. He is polite to other dogs and people but is not really interested in them. Susannah has trained him exceptionally well. He is a great companion for her and an alert guard dog, though he would greet any intruder with immense joy.

I now have two dogs at my feet. Dogs seem to need more contact and reassurance than bitches. Roxy comes to us now and again for attention, but she’s much more independent than the boys. I suppose that’s the nature of the beast. The girls instinctively nurture their young.

 
Ready for morning cuddles

Five times

 

Five times

This is the fifth time in eight years that I’ve composed a post about stag beetles. The first time was when four-year-old Frankie had been alarmed by ’a big, black thing’ on the floor in the conservatory. On that occasion it had been brought in by the curious cats. That summer, they brought in three, all unharmed and returned safely to the great outdoors.

It is around this season of the year that stag beetles emerge from their underground lairs, having spent the majority of their lives, between three and seven years, as larvae, feeding on decaying wood.

As adults, they also spend their first winter underground, eventually tunnelling to the surface, to mate. The female then returns to the spot from which she emerged, digs down and lays her eggs in the soil. The larvae may be found as much as half a metre underground.

The adults will not survive the summer, dying by the end of the season. None will live through the winter, apart from the new adults underground.

Stag beetles are the largest beetle native to the UK and are in decline. They are quite widespread in Southern England, but rare or even extinct in other areas of Britain. They are drawn to the warmth of roads and pavements and often end their lives being crushed under the wheels of cars or the feet of pedestrians.

Despite their rather aggressive appearance, they are completely harmless, except to each other when fighting.

This year we found two stag beetles sadly drowned in a bucket of water. We tipped them out, but it was too late to save them.

They fall prey to foxes and corvids. I have just seen a beautiful jay in the garden, so I wonder if it has spotted a stag beetle making its stately way across the ground.

If you’re interested in reading my previous stag beetle posts, just type ‘Stag beetles’ in the ‘Search this blog’ tab.

 

O Tannenbaum

O Tannenbaum

                                Mug painted by Frankie, aged 3

This German folk song was translated into English and eventually developed into the Christmas carol we know today, ‘O Christmas tree.’ It started as a song to celebrate the hardiness and positivity of the fir tree through the hard, cold winter season.

I like hearing it sung in German.

Unexpected

 

Unexpected

Melia, 20 months old

Mooching around on Saturday, doing nothing in particular as usual, we received a ‘phone call from our eldest grandson. He was headed in our direction, and would we be about for a visit?

Momentary panic as I looked around the sitting room. We hadn’t got five hours to clear up! On the other hand, we hadn’t seen him and his little family for a long time. Of course, we would be delighted to see them. After all, they were coming to see us, not conduct an inventory of the house and a critique of our home management.

Callum knows us well, and lived in the caravan on our drive for a year while he did his gap year near GCHQ. (The rest of the house was full with Susannah and her little boy.)

When they arrived, their little girl, Melia, had just woken from a nap and was clinging to Kat, unwilling to engage with strangers, and quite right, too. 

Really not sure, but safe in Mummy's arms

She is used to dogs and cats. There are two of each in her house, and all her Dorset cousins are knee deep in dogs, mostly working Labradors like ours. Nonetheless, we gated our dogs in the kitchen so that they could adjust to the excitement of visitors.

As Melia roused, she relaxed and showed her lovely smile, until Barry or I looked at her, when the shutters immediately came down. When we released the dogs, who went straight to Callum, she was entranced by them and life suddenly seemed more familiar to her.

 Gilbert, trying to understand

 Gilbert, our young boy, is not accustomed to toddlers, so he skirted around Melia, sniffing her surreptitiously, not yet realising that little children are sticky and good to lick. Roxy, having grown up with Frankie, is wise to the ways of infants and paid close attention as Melia munched a selection of sandwiches and satsumas.

The cats prowled around, as cats do, and Melia stroked them. Then she got into one of the empty dog beds, a big, fluffy doughnut of an affair, and was very happy. She is a very capable little girl and will be a loving big sister next March, when she will be two years old.

All too soon, it was time for them to leave. It was such a lovely surprise to see them and made our day.

The dogs were exhausted, as they always are with any change in routine, and slept soundly for the rest of the evening.

Friday

 

Friday

Friday was graduation day for my third grandson, Louis. He has worked extremely hard for three years to achieve his Physics degree. I don’t know what the future will hold for him, but it has been a privilege to watch him and his older siblings growing up.

It will be several years before my three youngest grandsons have to decide whether they will go to university and what they will study. Who knows what options will be available to them?

Friday also marked the end of term and the end of the academic year in Berkshire. My fourth grandson, Frankie, has finished primary school and must now move on from being a big fish in a little pond to becoming a tiny fish in a markedly larger lake. His cousin, Isla, my eldest great-granddaughter, breaks up on Monday in Dorset, and, like him, will move to a much bigger school in September.

Parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles watch with hope and interest as all these young people move forward to the next phase of their lives.

Hairstyles and boys and more

 

Hairstyles and boys and more

                        Frankie in the woods, aged six and a half.

In her post, Chris was talking about hairstyles.

When I used to meet Frankie from school, I noticed changing hairstyles among the boys. Certainly, some of the younger boys had different haircuts, but most of them still had the ‘tidy and presentable’ looks their mothers preferred.

Around the age of 9 or 10, and at some point in the summer holidays, as the boys moved from Year 4 to Year 5, self-expression became more evident. Formerly well-barbered locks were either allowed to grow or were mercilessly lopped into an approximation of the latest footballer/pop star look.

Those who favoured longer growth were governed by the natural condition of their hair. I didn’t see any chemically enhanced colouring or taming. Thus, curly hair grew out and around still cherubic faces, threatening to obliterate their features. Straight hair fell like a yard of pump water, either to be allowed to hang and swing, or tied back into a pony tail or held back off the face with an Alice band, though heaven forfend a boy should be told he was wearing any such item. One boy had beautiful thick hair in neat plaits. (His sister, incidentally, a few years younger than him, had and still has wonderful red hair so long that she can sit on it.)

So, by Year 6, most of the boys were in league with their barbers to adopt a different style. My 11-year-old grandson has had several 'styles', ranging from the Adolf Hitler/convict look to the 'can't see where I'm going' style, to 'I'm not really going bald, these are just fades’.

                                Frankie, in different woods, aged 11

It is quite difficult to be diplomatic (impossible for me, some would say, with some justification) when the little boy you’ve known and loved appears with a short back and sides so brutal that he looks as though he’s been condemned to hard labour in the hardest of hard prisons.

Currently, he is channelling some football hero or other who has tidy back and sides and an exaggerated mane that extends in front of him, and possibly serves the same purpose as a cat’s whiskers! He has gone through the ‘products’ phase, which is expensive, though I suppose it may return.

‘Old people don’t understand,’ Frankie was told when he reported the comments he received, to which the response was, ‘Old people understand more than you realise. There’s nothing new under the sun,’ followed by, ‘Who are you calling old?’ The remark stung, though, as it was intended to.

I wonder when he will start colouring his hair with something more permanent than the spray-on stuff. I remember when my son dyed his hair black, when he was about 16. His hair is naturally dark brown, but black was a step too far. His younger son, at university now, was ‘persuaded’ by a girl-friend to bleach his hair. Actually, it really suited his dark good looks, but I think natural is best.

It’s hypocritical of me to say that, because for many years I fought off the grey with varying shades of what the hairdresser called ‘caramel’. I refused to do what so many women do and go ‘blonde’ to hide the grey.

 Now, I can’t be bothered, and when I do eventually visit the hairdresser again, she will be surprised to see how grey I am. That’s if she remembers me, at all . . .

Red Nose Day

 

Red Nose Day

Frankie, aged 7,  wearing a red Mickey Mouse top and a red nose in 2019

Today is Red Nose Day in the UK. As the highlight of the charity Comic Relief, the brainchild of charity worker Jane Tewson, it is an annual fundraising campaign to alleviate child poverty in the UK and around the world. It was initiated by the comedy scriptwriter Richard Curtis and the comedian Lenny Henry in 1985, at a time when Ethiopia was experiencing severe famine.

The slogan for 2024 is ‘Do something funny for money’ and many organisations and individuals rise to the challenge. The BBC evening schedule is taken over by Comic Relief from 7.00 with comedy skits from otherwise ‘serious’ people like news presenters, parodies of popular programmes and challenges. There is a live telethon and the aim of the evening is to raise as much money as possible.

In schools throughout the British Isles children will be sporting red noses and possibly red clothing. Ordinary people will be doing extraordinary things and everyone is invited to donate to the cause.

The red nose looks more like a teapot!

Bus

 

Bus

                            Frankie and Roxy grew up together

Bus: a vehicle for transporting people.

Last Saturday afternoon a bus pulled up outside Frankie’s house.  No, he doesn’t live next to a bus stop. This was a very special bus, a gaming bus. It would transport its passengers from the current world to one of excitement.

It was more of a mini-van than a single decker bus and inside was one wall of ten double decker screens opposite a bench seat that ran the length of the vehicle. It offered more than fifty games, some to be played individually, some with a partner, and kept twelve ten and eleven-year-old boys entertained for an hour and a half. The days of ‘party games’ in the home seem to be a thing of the past. Nonetheless, Frankie and his friends had a wonderful, noisy time playing hide and seek all over the house after their time in the gaming bus. At such times one realises that they are, in most respects, still little boys.

Source

It’s Frankie’s actual birthday today and he will be spending his birthday weekend with his father in London. He is our seventh grandchild, our fourth grandson, and he is 11 years old. Eleven is a significant age. It is the age at which most children in UK transfer from primary to secondary school in the state sector. Independent (fee-paying or ‘private’ schools) have different arrangements. About 5.8% of UK children attend independent schools.

So Frankie and his friends are in Year 6, the biggest fish in the pond. In September they will again become tiddlers in the lake, gazing wide-eyed at their new, much larger surroundings and wondering if they will ever reach the dizzying heights of the sophisticated and very tall 6^th formers they see.

For the moment they are at that intriguing pre-adolescent stage, still very reliant on their parents, though increasingly independent, sometimes easily upset and anxious, their voices and attitudes clearly those of children. Things are very black and white, right or wrong, fair or unfair and they remain largely egocentric though beginning to appreciate there are shades and tones in life. Time seems to pass quickly at secondary school – maybe not for them, but for the adults in their lives, especially their mothers. They move swiftly from childhood to adolescence to young adulthood, too rapidly it seems. Looking back, it appears to pass in a flash, but for the moment, they are still excitable ten and eleven-year-olds, full of energy and laughter.

Happy birthday, Frankie!

            
                                     Frankie, aged 6, with Bertie

Decorating the tree

 

Decorating the tree

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

It is almost time, I feel, to decorate the Christmas tree. We used to have a real tree every year. Then I bought a smallish one with the intention of putting it in the garden to grow after its indoor stint and bringing it into the house every year thereafter. It grew lopsided and didn’t look at all right, with some lovely green needles and some less than lovely brown ones.

I love the smell of real trees but find the needles quite sharp and irritating, making tree decoration more of a challenge than it should be. They drop all over the floor and secrete themselves in strange places to reappear months later. So, I abandoned real trees a few years ago and eventually found a very pleasing artificial one that looks quite like the real thing.

Tree decoration is like a Damocles’ sword – it’s a task that hangs over my head, creating anxiety. How silly! Actually, the anxiety is caused by my uncertainty about where the tree went after the previous Christmas. It always used to go in one of the lofts and if I had been particularly organised after Twelfth Night, the decorations would be nearby. For some reason, or none, that habit died and storage became a moveable feast.

Having located the tree, I turn my attention to the lights. Before putting them away I wind the lengths of little lamps round rolled-up paper, to avoid them tangling. It doesn’t always work. Inevitably, after untangling them and having the annual argument about why I didn’t store them more carefully, to which my reply should be, ‘Do it yourself then!’ we have the festive ‘Testing Of The Lights’. This is another trial of patience and language control. Naturally, some of the lights don’t work and the replacement bulbs we have don’t fit because they are remnants from long-lost sets.

At last, everything is in place and the careful placing of ornaments can begin. Unfortunately, some of the hangers have parted company with their partners and must be repaired or replaced.

I used to leave the dressing of the tree until just before Christmas Eve, but when Susannah and Frankie came to live with us when Frankie was 16 months old, I changed my routine. This was largely because Frankie’s birthday is December 1^st (the same as my late brother) and I wanted to make it more special for him.

They lived with us for five and a half years and it felt very strange, but perfectly right, when they moved into their own home.

It will be interesting to see Gilbert’s reaction to the tree. I suspect he will take pleasure in removing ornaments and taking them to his bed(s). I used to hang chocolate decorations on the tree until one year I discovered the wrappers were empty. One of the dogs had carefully sucked all the chocolate out. That was the prerogative of the children until they grew too old to indulge in such pursuits. We don’t have any glass ornaments, either. Although they’re very pretty, they break easily and are dangerous for small children and pets.

It’s all a very long way from my childhood when the tree was festooned with glass baubles and real lighted candles in clip-on holders. Simpler times, simpler pleasures, but somehow the magic remains even in these less innocent times.

 

 

Syrup

 

Syrup

                                                                            Barrister’s wig

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Syrup comes from the Cockney rhyming slang ‘syrup of figs’, meaning a wig.

There are three different forms of wig that are worn in criminal court cases – the barrister’s wig, the judge’s bench wig and the judge’s full bottomed wig. The barrister’s wig, the ‘tie wig’, is curled at the front, above the forehead, and has two or three horizontal rows of curls around the sides and back of the head and two ‘tails’. 

                                            Judge’s bench wig 

                             Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

The judge’s bench wig is tightly curled or frizzed all over with two small ties at the back. 

    

                             1st Viscount Hewart in full-bottomed wig

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

The judge’s full-bottomed wig, similar in style to the barrister’s, has frizzed sides rather than curls and extends over the shoulders. Such wigs are not normally worn now, except for ceremonial occasions.

 Before wigs became the accepted dress in court, lawyers were simply expected to trim their hair and beards neatly.  That changed during the reign of Charles II (1660-1685) when wigs became a popular form of dress and were considered essential in polite society. Wigs had gone out of fashion by the 1820s but remained part of court dress. Since 2007 they are no longer required in family or civil court cases but are still worn during criminal trials.

Traditionally, wigs, also known as perruques, are hand-made from horse hair, though synthetic versions are available. Horsehair from the mane is finer than the coarser hair from the tail, but either may be used. The hair is washed before work starts on making a wig, to ensure that it is clean and free of bacteria, and it is then graded by colour. Wigs take about three weeks to make by hand. Some wigs are bespoke, while others are ‘off the peg’ in sizes small, medium or large.

There is some debate over how frequently wigs should be cleaned. Some authorities suggest that once every 25-30 years is sufficient, while others recommend professional cleaning at least once a year. Presumably it depends how often and in what circumstances and climatic conditions it is worn.

Baby barrister Frankie - he is 10 years old, so still quite young

The Hanging Judge, about to don the black cap!

From Wikipedia: The black cap is a plain black fabric square formerly worn as symbolic headgear by English, Welsh, Irish and Northern Irish judges in criminal cases when passing a sentence of death. When worn, the square was placed on top of the judicial wig, with one of the four corners of the fabric facing forward. The cap is based on Tudor court styles.^[

Would she be more lenient? Don't you believe it!

 Judge not, that ye be not judged (Matthew 7:1)

Gilbert the Good - my morning

 

Gilbert the Good - my morning

I slept in a bit this morning. It was a busy day in the garden yesterday, helping to repot lots of plants. Roxy didn’t do much; she doesn’t really like gardening but I like to get my nose into everything. The humans call me a Monty Don dog. So, anyway, I was a bit tired and didn’t get up until 6:15.

After breakfast, I played with Frankie when he came round and after he had gone to school I made Roxy play with me.

Later on we all went for a walk. It was lovely and green. We didn’t go to any of the ponds but I managed to find a muddy puddle and bowled Roxy over in it. She was covered in mud and she’s still quite damp, several hours later. I only got mud on my paws.

When we got home it was time for my elevenses and then I had a snooze on Janice’s feet. That way I can be sure she doesn’t go anywhere without me knowing.

There are lots of boxes in the house. New ones come every day, big, small, heavy, light, all filled with interesting things, though some of them seem to have more paper in them than anything else. I reckon it’s my job to make sure nothing has been hidden in the paper. I’m very thorough. I did a really good job today.

 When my humans saw the results of my work, they laughed, but I went away from my bed to lie somewhere different, just in case I was in trouble. I don’t think I was, but a lad can’t be too careful.

Dreaming 

Look! No mud now!

After a while, I went back to my bed because I wanted to play with my squeaky pig. When Callum gave it to me I was only very little and I was frightened by the noise. Now I love it, especially when one of the humans steps on it by mistake and it makes them jump - that makes me laugh.

Arthur and Lottie came to stay last weekend and I thought they were coming again this weekend, but they’re not. It was fun, but we were so tired when they went home, we slept and slept.

 I think my humans had a bit of a zizz, too, though Barry calls it ‘watching rugby’ and Janice says she’s doing cross stitch. Is it called cross stitch because she gets cross when she’s doing it?

 This is a video from earlier this month showing my approach to searching. See how meticulous I am? 

Turn the sound up and you'll hear my pig!

Gilbert the Good in May 2023

 

Gilbert the Good in May 2023

Gilbert - what a good boy!

We have had sunshine recently so everyone has been out in the garden. Roxy was sunbathing and Herschel and Jellicoe were birdwatching but I was helping. I picked up the dead sticks and chewed them and then I pruned the forget-me-nots – they were delicious. Janice was a bit worried that they might not be good for me but when she looked them up she found they were edible and can be used in salads, so I’ve taught her something.

Gilbert and Roxy

I don’t like salads much, well, the lettuce part, anyway. I always try the lettuce but it doesn’t do anything for me. I like tomatoes and cucumber and peppers and I love carrots. Roxy and I have carrots every day, and Barry gives us each one Brazil nut a day. I like most human food but I’m not allowed dhal as it might be a bit too spicy for my stomach – that’s what the humans say, anyway.

I had an exciting time this week. I discovered a part of the garden I hadn’t seen before. I mean, I knew it was there and it was a pond, but I hadn’t had a proper look, because it had a fence all round it. The humans had to fence it when Frankie came to live here when he was very small. (He and Roxy grew up together.)

  Anyway, Barry left the gate open and I was able to go in and investigate. I had a paddle and laughed at the fish swimming away from me. I got duckweed on my nose but Janice didn’t have her camera so I can’t show you a photograph of how attractive I looked.

I went to have another look the next day and after that the humans decided that the gate latch needed to be repaired. Shame!

I’ve just seen a strange cat the other side of the cat fence. It looks like an Ocicat, like Herschel and Jellicoe and it was yowling.  Herschel and Jellicoe were facing up to it, brothers in arms, united in defence of their realm.

I’d better go. Arthur and Lottie are coming for a sleepover soon. That will be lots of fun!

TTFN

Gilbert